


The Mysterious Case Of Dr. Henry Meanswell and Mr. Glanni Glæpur

by PrincexRaven



Category: LazyTown
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Cabarets, Corsetry, Dancing, Dom/sub Undertones, Eventual Smut, Fae Glanni Glæpur, Fanon Glanni Glæpur, Fishnets, Glanni in high heels, Glanni will fuck everything and Henry has no idea what he's doing, Glanni's too pretty for anyone's good, Light Angst, Light Bondage, Literary References & Allusions, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Musical References, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Pansexual Character, Questioning character, Riding, Scratching, Wilde and Stevenson rolling in their graves, because who doesn't like that, butchering of 19th century literature, excessive descriptions lol, in a sense at least, like seriously I went to town with Henry's name in literature, musical numbers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 05:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16320011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincexRaven/pseuds/PrincexRaven
Summary: Alternate continuation to FluffandCake's "A Father's Visit", from their Robbie/Robyn series.There was an invitation -an oddly discrete one at that. Dr. Henry Meanswell knows this is wrong, but then again, Glanni Glæpur has always been irresistible...





	The Mysterious Case Of Dr. Henry Meanswell and Mr. Glanni Glæpur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FluffandCake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffandCake/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A father's visit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14843421) by [FluffandCake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffandCake/pseuds/FluffandCake). 



> Lovingly dedicated to FluffandCake, who gave me permission to tinker with their work. Song is "Bring on the men", sung by Linda Eder, from the Jekyll&Hyde musical. Choreography and costume heavily inspired by SK Michels' animatic of the song over on Youtube, and Josh Young's version of the song for "Broadway Backwards", also on YT. Lyrics in Italics.

This had been a bad idea. This had been such, such a bad idea.

Henry sank into the plush reddish-pink chair as much as he could, trying as much as he possibly could to avoid being seen by other patrons of the establishment, if it could be called that, that Glanni Glæpur managed.

Lord, Glanni Glæpur. The name alone made him want to bang his head on the table nearby; he was pretty sure he was betraying his daughter, and the man he’d come to think of as a son, and Lawrence and Anna, who still loved _him_ like a son, just by being here. 

And yet, and yet. Ever since Glæpur’s oddly discrete invitation to the cabaret he owned aside from the brothel, right before he left Lazytown, he’d been practically zombie-like. Every time he tried to close his eyes to sleep, he saw the glimmers of violet in the man’s ink-black hair, glistening under the sun, wondering how it would feel under his hand; he saw the contours of his razor-sharp cheekbones, smelled the cherry candy on his breath as he leaned in close, _too close_ , and Henry tried to focus on something else only to find himself lost in the way the slender, elongated bone of his clavicle tensed away from the flesh of a partly-exposed, narrow chest and how his prominent Adam’s apple swiftly moved up and down his swanlike neck as he spoke. He’d see those long, heavy, velvet-like lashes falling almost right over the protruding bone, fluttering charcoal smudges against the porcelain of his skin, trying in vain to hide the sparkle of those hypnotizing silver eyes; he’d feel the unbearable softness of his creamy, moonlight-pale skin as those long, dexterous, promising fingers ghosted over his hand. And most of all, Henry would see his _mouth_ , wet and glossy and pink-red like the juicy core of a strawberry, plump and inviting as the glorious, ripe lips parted in a wicked smile to reveal teeth too white and too sharp, promising him the heights of Heaven and the depths of Hell.

He’d resisted, God knows he had, or tried. Tossed and turned at night and cursed silently every waking moment, going about his routine like a marionette, sleep-deprived and mechanical, but Glæpur was haunting his every thought to the point he was starting to think he’d cast a spell on him in the literal sense. And even though he would never understand, or forgive, what his ex-wife had done with her son, he was starting to comprehend the part where she ran away with _him_. The embarrassment burned bright, too –he was thirty-five, for God’s sake, not fourteen; was he really at an age where he could justify having wet dreams about lipgloss and a smirk, no matter how pretty the mouth that wore them was?

It was no wonder his brothel (The Rosebush –what an absurd, corny name, Henry had thought, and of course the girls were “the Roses”) was so popular; it was less wonder still that he was the main star. Glanni Glæpur had been born to steal; if not jewels, then souls, minds, hearts. He would make or break you, crush you with a flick of his impossibly narrow wrist (so narrow, yet not brittle at all), tie a leash around your neck with a brush of his lips against yours. He was made to take what he wanted, and that he did.

And for some reason that had him utterly befuddled, what he wanted now seemed to be _Henry_.

“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and the soul grows sick with longing, with desire for what monstrous laws have made monstrous and illegal. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification.”

Henry had read _"The Picture of Dorian Gray"_ many times, especially as a teenager, strangely fascinated by it, more often than not laughing out loud at his namesake’s raw, cruel cynicism, but he could see the validity of this statement Lord Henry made to Dorian. So just once, and be done with it, he had promised himself, and so here he was, tonight.

He’d come in late, knowing that Glanni only sung the last number, except on very special occasions, and it was him he’d come to see after all.

The heavy velvet curtain parted and a single, rosy spotlight cast a ray precisely in the center of the stage, and under it, standing with his back to the audience, was _him_ , the ends of a polished black cane in each of his hands and the center casually draped over the back of his neck, dressed, surprisingly, not in shades of purple or pink this time. He wore shiny, black knee-high boots with five-inch heels and mid-bicep black silk gloves; he couldn’t see much more with the way the dark red semi-sheer, draped skirt hung nearly to the start of the boots, except for the fine bones of his back, shoulder-blades jutting out like the wing remains of a fallen angel and the knobs of his spine like beads on a rosary (and what was with this man that was the embodiment of sin inspiring images that had to do with God and Heaven and angels in him, except of course, Henry realized, Lucifer had been an angel too), the shadow of the shape of his thighs and the corset lacing running up his burgundy and black vertically-striped top.

Then he turned, slowly, grinning, to the first notes of a piano, and Henry’s breath stopped.

For one thing, the draped skirt was much, _much_ shorter on the front than on the back, allowing him (and everyone else) to admire the way his fishnet stockings, stark black against the alabaster of his mile-long legs and held up by a barely-visible garter-belt, made said legs seem unbelievably longer; the way the inwards curve of his waist was cinched by what was, in fact, a corset that ended right below his nipples, while the rest of his chest was covered only by a triangle of black lace that ended up in a choker wound up around his neck, exposing his delicate, exquisitely shaped shoulders and his pointed collarbone. The boots he was gently clicking in tune with the piano were lace-up, he noticed. His hair was curly and long to his neck, and his eyelids seemed heavy with all the glittery black eyeshadow that was on them, and that mouth that had been haunting him was impossibly redder, glistening wet under the lights like freshly spilled blood. Henry took a gulp, and the song began.

_There was a time, I don’t know when_  
_I didn’t have much time for men_  
_But this is now, and that was then…_  
_I’m learning…_

Glanni’s voice was low, sultry, like liquid silk, and the way he drawled out that last sentence while swinging down his cane from his shoulders to tap it playfully against his left hip while smirking made the fine hairs on the back of Henry’s nape stand on end.

_A girl alone, all on her own_  
_Must try to have a heart of stone_  
_So I try not, to make it known,_  
_My yearning…_

Glanni scanned the audience, feigned innocence dripping sweetly poisoned from those lips, and then his all-seeing silver eyes found him, and his grin grew wider.

_I try to show, I have no need_  
_I really do, I don’t succeed…_

Glanni dragged out the last note of the sentence, winked at him, and then some more instruments came on and the slow song became livelier as Glanni started to show the true power of his voice, starting the refrain with a kick of his leg that sent the cane up and swinging in his hand.

_So let’s bring on the men_  
_And let the fun begin_  
_A little touch of sin_  
_Why wait another minute?_  
_Step this way, it’s time for us to play_  
_They say they may not pass this way again_  
_So let’s waste no more time, bring on the men!_

The way Glanni’s legs and hips moved, and how at one point he leaned forward, a fist around the cane and his other hand on top of it, the heel of his boot touching his ass as he bent his knee backward and up, was downright obscene, and Henry could clearly see all the patrons, male or female, were drawn to him like moths to a flame; Henry himself was having trouble breathing, and his surroundings were blurry.

Then he realized he recognized the song and all the blood froze in his veins.

This was Lucy’s first song from the _"Jekyll and Hyde"_ musical; Lucy, the prostitute who brought out Hyde in Jekyll.

_Doctor Henry_ Jekyll.

If it had been any other person –any at all– Henry could have chalked it up to coincidence, but this was _Glanni Glæpur_ we’re talking about.

He knew he’d come; he’d, somehow, known when, and had prepared this little number just for him. Henry didn’t know whether to be flattered or suspicious that this was a joke at his expense.

The way Glanni’s eyes bore into his, though, suggested this was very serious, or as serious as he’d ever take anything, as the music dimmed again and he sang, sitting with his legs coyly crossed one over the other and dangling off the edge of the stage: 

_I always knew, I’ve always said_  
_That silk and lace, in black and red,_

And here he pulled up his skirt a little bit more, revealing the red strip of the garter and the unmarred ivory skin beneath, translucent and dusted very slightly with glitter, batting his butterfly-like eyelashes, and the audience cheered and Henry understood why he’d strayed from his preferred shades. All for the show, he supposed, as Glanni continued:

_Will drive a man, right off his head, it’s easy…_

Glanni leapt off the stage with catlike grace, prowling amongst the patrons, leaving ghosting touches of his gloved hand here and there (across a chest, up a neck, under a jaw, on a cheek, tracing a pair of lips; men or women it didn’t seem to matter to him), never stopping singing.

_So many men, so little time_  
_I want ‘em all, is that a crime?_

As if on cue, the more experienced members of the audience clamored “No!” and Glanni flashed an even more blinding smile before continuing:

_I don’t know why, they say that I’m too easy…_  
_They make me laugh, they make me cry, they make me sick, so God knows why…_

He twirled, kicking the cane up again, so hard this time that it was sent flying a couple meters into the air, and as he caught and spun it, four girls in similar outfits came onstage and joined him again in the chorus, at the top of their lungs, with the rest of the orchestra.

_We say bring on the men_  
_And let the fun begin_  
_A little touch of sin,_  
_Why wait another minute?_  
_Step this way, it’s time for us to play_  
_They say we may not pass this way again_  
_So let’s waste no more time, bring on the men!_

Glanni dropped himself on an empty table, stretching his long, lean body across it, not seeming to mind if his already scarce skirt rode up some more, back arched to show off his figure as much as possible, so that only his shoulders and hips actually rested on the flat surface, one knee bent so the heel of his boot and the tip of it touched the tablecloth as his foot formed a ballerina-like arc, and a delicate hand laid across his porcelain brow like a faint Victorian lady. It was a solo again.

_They break your heart, they steal your soul,_  
_Tear you apart, and yet they somehow make you whole…_

Glanni’s flair for dramatics was showing in his tone, and he flipped himself over the table amazingly fast, only to end up in his hands and knees.

_So what’s their game? ___  
_I suppose a rose by any other name_  
_The perfume and… the prick’s the same…_

__He winked at Henry again, his voice having dropped to a growl with the word “prick” and Henry wished with all his might that he wasn’t familiar with British slang and didn’t know what “prick” stood for, therefore saving him the shame of cottoning in on the song’s double entendre and blushing bright all the way down his neck and up his ears, but alas, no such luck. There came the chorus again, and with it the girls that absolutely no one was paying attention to, mesmerized as they all were by Glanni on all fours and growling, more panther than man._ _

_____So let’s bring on the men_  
_And let the fun begin_  
_A little touch of sin_  
_Why wait another minute?_  
_Step this way, it’s time for us to play_  
_They say they may not pass this way again_  
_So let’s waste no more time, bring on the men!_

Glanni quickly jumped off the table again to join the girls onstage for the instrumental part of the song, dancing and swaying and doing tricks with his cane with far more sensual grace than any of them. Henry would have tried to focus on any of the girls, usually –they were pretty enough, and if he tried (very) hard they would have distracted him from Glanni’s, well, _everything_ , but if he was there to purge himself of his strange obsession then it only made sense to focus on Glanni as much as possible, to exorcise him from his mind.

As he watched the other man dance, though, it quickly became apparent that this all had been for naught. Looking (staring, gawking) was not enough; the otherworldly beautiful man would not be expunged from his mind by that alone. He had to _touch_ , to roam the expanse of that skin he’d gotten a taste of, to devour those lips that beckoned him like the forbidden fruit. And he could not bring himself to do that; that was a step too far, that was a betrayal too deep to Stephanie, to Robbie, to Anna and Lawrence. No, he could never bring himself to do that.

Or could he?

The instrumental bridge ended and several male dancers dressed in scant, sparkly black numbers came out as the girls left. Oh, so The Rosebush had male prostitutes, too. Well, that shouldn’t have been too much of a surprise, all things considered.

_I like to have a man for breakfast each day,_  
_I’m really social and I like it that way_

Glanni drawled, stroking one of the dancers’ broad chest.

_By late mid-morning I need something to munch_  
_So I ask over… two men for lunch_

Henry could never understand how Glanni switched positions so quickly; now he was comfortably sandwiched between two finely muscled men, before he pushed them softly aside to go on:

_And men are mad about my afternoon teas_  
_They’re quite informal, I just do to please_  
_Those triple sandwiches are my favorite ones…_

It couldn’t get much worse, as Glanni was now straddling one of the dancers, with another one standing directly in front of his mouth and a third one to the side, belt clasped in Glanni’s hand, but it did, when he accompanied the next line of the song ( _I’m also very… partial to buns!_ ) with a playful smack of his cane to a fourth dancer’s butt.  
The entire audience laughed and Henry just wondered in what other compromising position Glanni’s lithe body could contort itself into, because he knew what came next.

_My healthy appetite gets strongest at night_  
_My at-home dinners are my men friends’ delight_  
_When I invite the fellows over to dine…_

No, no, no, no, Henry thought, trying to tear his eyes away but unable to, glued to the scene of debauchery before him by equal parts horror and desire.

_They all come early…_  
_In bed by nine!_

Glanni had straight-out growled the last two phrases, and was now laying on his back with his head dangling off the edge and facing the public upside down, his legs up and spread with his booted feet pointing towards the ceiling and men on every side and inch of him, cane resting standing straight between his parted thighs in a parody of an erection. At least there’s only one more refrain and it’s done, Henry thought. Glanni pushed on his cane to stand –or jump– up, and the girls’ voices could be heard joining him but not seen as he draped his legs around one dancer, cane securely around his neck, and rested his back on another while two others stroked his chest and hips, well and truly belting out now:

_So let’s bring on the men_  
_And let the fun begin_  
_A little touch of sin_  
_Why wait another minute?_  
_Step this way, it’s time for us to play_  
_They say they may not pass this way again_  
_So let’s waste no more time, bring on the men!_

Glanni stood, faced the audience, opened his arms wide in one grand gesture and put such force on each dragged-out note of the last line of the song that it should have torn his vocal chords right off.

_Bring… on… the… men…!_

He bowed immediately, blowing a kiss, alone on that stage again, and the audience erupted in raucous cheers, stomping their feet and clapping so hard their palms must’ve been raw. Henry merely stood petrified in the knowledge that this hadn’t fixed things.

It had made them _worse_.

The establishment cleared quite quickly after that –the patrons were either in a hurry to get back home unnoticed, or to make their way over to The Rosebush. Somehow, Henry remained, a pillar of salt in his chair, until it was completely empty and Glanni materialized at his side without a sound, making him jump out of his skin when he leaned in to purr in his ear.

‘Enjoyed the show, didn’t you?’ he whispered, Henry still holding a hand to his chest and trying not to have a heart attack. He nodded. What use was there in lying? He knew Glanni had been looking at him the entire time.

‘Good’ he continued, in that same husky tone. ‘I put it on just for you, you know’.

‘I’d figured as much’ Henry tried to scoff, but it came out as a choked whine. He clenched his hands so the Fae wouldn’t notice how sweaty they were. ‘How… does your lipstick not smudge? It looks very wet’ he said, hoping the question was innocent enough.

‘Magic’ Glanni laughed like it was obvious, putting a hand on Henry’s thigh and standing directly in front of him, bending down at the waist to be able to look at the seated man in the eyes from his freakish height and ridiculously high heels. Henry barely heard the answer over the pounding of his own heart in his ears. That spindly, delicate hand was way too high up on his thigh. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t, couldn’t.

Shouldn’t…

And then, because Glanni Glæpur never asked for permission if he could just take the things he wanted, a gloved hand knotted itself inextricably on the slightly wavy, light brown hair at the back of Henry’s head and a pair of too-red, too-inviting lips were suddenly on his. Henry moaned in surprise and Glanni snuck his tongue in, quick like a snake, caressing Henry’s own with it, clicking it against the roof of his mouth, coaxing Henry’s out a bit so he could suck on the tip, those inhumanly sharp teeth digging slightly into his bottom lip until it was puffy and swollen and the entirety of his body felt like a single, massive, aroused nerve ending.

Glanni pulled back, smiling wide and wicked, and asked:

‘Well, good doctor? Did I manage to bring out a little bit of the Hyde in you?’

Henry was wordless and panting heavily, ridiculously and hotly aware of the erection throbbing and swelling in his dress pants –such a tacky reaction to a kiss, no matter how good, but dear, it had been _so long_ …

And Elizabeth had never kissed him like _that_.

‘Really, she didn’t?’ Glanni asked, quirking an eyebrow. Henry realized he’d said that out loud and he cursed his very existence at the amused, steel-like glint in the other man’s eyes. ‘If I recall correctly, Beth was a bitch, but she was one hell of a _kinky_ bitch, when we were together. Maybe she thought she had to play the coy, innocent, good wife for shy, timid, gentle doctor Meanswell?’

Then the glint turned into something darker, sinister, and Glanni started laughing loudly in his face.

‘Oh, my god. You haven’t been with anybody but her, have you?’

Henry was pretty sure if his face got any redder it would explode, but Glanni’d hit the nail right on the head, as he had the irritating tendency to do. Elizabeth was older than him, she had been his first and his last and he’d been much too busy raising a child on his own and working a job as demanding as his to worry about himself. About what he needed. About what he _wanted_.

His lack of response was more than response enough for Glanni, though, who seemed about ready to cry from laughter.

‘And that bitch had the audacity to pretend to be modest?! God, she was such a slut for me’ Glanni said, malice shining bright and clear in the silver of his narrowed eyes. ‘If I told you half the shit she let me do to her, _begged me_ to do to her, you would probably never let her near your precious little girl again!’

_Stephanie_. Oh, god, Stephanie. He had to get out of here _right now_ , this had already gone too far; his conscience was metaphorically kicking him in the ass to get up and get running but his actual ass remained superglued to the damn chair.

‘I-I should g-’ was all Henry could manage to stutter, before Glanni yanked his hair and threw his head back, sinking his teeth this time into the tender flesh of Henry’s neck. Henry let out a yelp of pain shot through with pleasure, his whole body wracked with shivers at such a simple action, _again_ , and bit his lip hard enough to make it raw in order to avoid more embarrassing noises escaping him. Glanni’s knee had somehow found its way between thighs that Henry wasn’t aware he’d spread, and rubbed gently against his dick, making him pulse and ache, fingers digging white-knuckled into the sides of the seat to stop himself from bucking into him. Glæpur could play him like a damn fiddle but he wasn’t ready to humiliate himself so much just yet.

‘Let go’ was the hot, breathy whisper in his ear. ‘Give in. You want me; I want you, and nobody has to know. Be a little bit less Doctor Henry Jekyll and a little bit more Lord Henry Wotton, perhaps, and just take what you want. No remorse, no consequences’.

Something inside Henry broke. Glanni could see it in his eyes, in the barely-there rim of blue around his hugely dilated pupils, a determination that had not been there before. The want, the hunger, the shame had all been clear in that blue from the moment he’d first set eyes on him, but he could see now that shy, meek little pushover Doctor Meanswell would take what he wanted…

Or, at the very least, let himself be taken.

‘You know’ Glanni growled, still in his ear, fishnet-clad knee pressing harder, until there was just the tiniest bit of pain laced with the pleasure ‘I could just bend you over this table here and fuck you. I could keep going, just with my leg, until you come in your nice suit pants and have to walk home in your sticky mess and try to avoid explaining it to your family. Or I could be so good to you, could give you this mouth and these hands you can’t seem to stop staring at, let you touch me, ride you. You just have to tell me what you want, Henry. I will not be glamouring you so you do, and I’m not glamouring you so you want me, either. What’s the fun in that? This is what you want, what your body wants, what your mind is screaming for. Be honest with yourself. _Be honest with me, Henry_ ’

Henry held his gaze with those guileless, huge, dilated blue eyes, deep blush dusting his cheeks and creeping down his neck until it disappeared into his shirt collar. He was flustered and panting and still trying to hold his ground, waging an inexistent battle he’d already have lost, anyway. It was honestly adorable, even endearing. It made Glanni want to sink his teeth into him, tear him apart, show him what that ex-wife of his hadn’t, just how good could it be, how wonderfully it could hurt, made him want to rip cries of ecstasy and agony from that pretty throat, mark him up, hook him onto what he could give like one gets hooked onto heroin.

‘N-not here’. Henry murmured, averting his eyes at last. ‘Not here, I can’t –take me somewhere else’ he practically begged, and if he had been looking at Glanni’s mouth stretched as wide as it would go, pearly and sharp and almost evil, he’d probably have curled in on himself in fear.

This was one lesson Glanni had learned long ago: in the end, no matter how much you resist or how hard you try or how long you hold, fights against your own nature are always lost. Glanni couldn’t remember to ever even have tried to fight; Henry had just accepted his own defeat.

It was good and well enough, Glanni mused, holding Henry’s waist and poofing them both out of the club.

**Author's Note:**

> Smut next chapter! Also the "double entendre" is that "prick" is British slang for "dick", in case anyone didn't know lol.


End file.
